CHAPTER TWENTY.

I woke up the next morning filled with all kinds of energy. I had a plan to get the information we needed from Morgan and it involved chicken soup. My mom always kept homemade soup in her freezer. I'd just stop on my way to work to pick it up.

When I came out of the bedroom, Marco was already shaved, his sheets folded neatly on the end of the sofa. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, doing push-ups on the living room carpet.

"Oatmeal this morning?" I asked.

"Sure. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty . . . I'll be in to help in a moment."

"That's okay. Keep working those biceps, Salvare. The Irish chef is on duty." I was in a generous mood. It felt great knowing Marco and I were a team again. Holmes and Watson. Batman and Robin. Marco and Abby. We were unstoppable.

Marco's cell phone rang as I was pouring a packet of oatmeal in the bowl. "Would you get that, babe?" he called in between counts. "Phone's on the table."

And Nikki was sleeping, which he'd apparently forgotten. I dashed for the phone, glanced quickly at the screen, saw OUT OF AREA, and had an instant feeling of trepidation. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Who is this?" a woman with a slight Italian accent demanded.

Yikes. Just as I feared, it was Francesca Salvare. "Um, just a minute, please," I said, hurrying into the living room. "Your mom!" I whispered, shoving the phone at Marco. "Don't tell her I'm here."

"But you answered," Marco whispered back.

"The last time I spoke with her, she quizzed me on my bowel habits!" I whispered. "And the time before that-"

"Hi, Mama. Yes, that was Abby. Because I was busy. Doing push-ups, Mama. I don't think she recognized your voice, either. I don't know why Rafe isn't answering his phone. I'm not at home. Yes, I know what time it is. I slept here. Why? Do I need a reason?" Marco held the phone away to draw a deep breath. "Did you want something, Mama? Yes, I gave her the pattern book. She's thinking about it."

Ye G.o.ds. How was I going to get out of that one without hurting her feelings?

Marco put a hand over the phone to whisper, "She wants to talk to you."

"No!" I whispered in alarm. "Tell her I'm leaving right now to go to work. Wait. Tell her I'm running late and have lots to do today. No, that's no good. Tell her-"

"She can't talk now, Mama. I'm sure she'll let you know when she makes up her mind. Okay, I'll have Rafe phone you later. Sure. Bye.

"Did you catch the gist of that?" Marco asked.

"Yes, and she's not going to make my gown." I headed into the kitchen, muttering, "I'm wearing jeans and a white blouse. End of discussion."

I had just stirred hot water into the oats when I heard, "Abby, you need to see this."

I put the bowls on a tray with spoons, napkins, and cups of coffee, and carried it to the living room. Marco had tuned in to the local cable TV station's morning newscast, where a reporter was talking about a press conference. I put the tray on the coffee table, sat beside Marco on the sofa, and picked up my bowl.

Marco turned up the volume, catching the reporter in midsentence. "-head of operations at the Uniworld Distribution Center gave this statement yesterday."

Head of operations? "Is this about Nils Raand?" I asked, spooning a bite of creamy oatmeal into my mouth.

"Yep. Raand bonded out yesterday afternoon," Marco said.

"He did? Then maybe Raand is who Honey ran from."

"It's possible."

A prerecorded clip showed a shot of the New Chapel courthouse, where microphones had been set up at the top of the steps. I watched as Nils Raand took his place in front of the mics, where a good half dozen reporters had gathered. Beside Raand was attorney Nathan Knowles in the standard-issue black wool dress coat. Raand sported a chic tan suede bomber jacket, brown pants, and shiny brown leather shoes.

"My arrest was a mistake," Raand said, "and in no way reflects on the good name of Uniworld Food Corporation. Uniworld remains one of the premier corporations in this country, dedicated to providing quality food products for everyone."

I nearly choked at that remark. "Food products laced with hormones, that is!"

"Will you be suing the police for false arrest?" a reporter called.

Attorney Knowles leaned toward the microphones. "We'll take this case step by step. Our first order of business is to clear this man's name."

A woman reporter stepped forward, a cameraman at her shoulder. "We understand there's been some controversy surrounding the opening of what has been called Uniworld's dairy factory, and, more important, Uniworld's use of bovine hormones in the operation of that factory. How would you address those issues?"

"It would be unthinkable for Uniworld to be involved in anything unethical," Raand said. "Every Uniworld product is USDA certified. What's more, we are a family-oriented company and this will be a standard dairy farm that will employ members of your own community. It is unfathomable to me that anyone would be opposed to that."

"That is such a load of propaganda," I said.

"Does this hormone controversy have anything to do with why you were arrested?" the woman reporter asked.

Knowles started to answer, but Raand beat him to it. "Yes, it does. I was arrested because of one woman's personal vendetta against me."

"I can't watch this." I started to get up, but the reporter's next question stopped me cold.

"Can you name the woman?"

"Her ident.i.ty is no secret," Raand said coolly. "Her shop is there"-he pointed-"across the street. Bloomers Flower Shop. I believe you know Ms. Knight has been campaigning against Uniworld and me for some time. But her vendetta will stop now." He looked directly into the television camera, his icy glare seeming to stare right at me. "I will see to that."

At Raand's statement, a dozen hands went up and a reporter called, "Are you going to sue Ms. Knight?"

"No comment," Knowles said. "Thank you for your time." He took Raand's arm and led him toward a waiting car.

I put the bowl aside and sagged against the back of the sofa.

Energy gone.

I didn't talk much as Marco drove me to my parents' house. I was still brooding about Raand's threat against me. Didn't he realize the campaign had already stopped? Hadn't he noticed the absence of protesters?

Marco's thoughts, however, were on more immediate concerns. "Did your mom say she'd have the soup ready when we got there?"

"Do you mean like bring-it-to-the-curb ready? Right. Dream on."

I'd called Mom before we left the apartment to ask if I could have a container of her soup. Naturally, that had led to a round of questions about my health, even though I a.s.sured her the soup was for a sick friend. The only way to convince her I was fine was to let her see me.

"We won't have to stay long," I a.s.sured Marco. "Mom will be getting ready to leave for school."

"Then we'll head straight for Morgan's house," he said, glancing at me for confirmation.

"I was thinking more like midmorning. There's usually a lull at the shop then."

Marco turned into my parents' driveway and pulled up to their garage door, which they'd left open for us. Keeping a sharp eye on our surroundings, he hustled me inside the garage and through the door that led into Mom's studio.

As we circled the pottery wheel in the middle of the room, Marco said, "So this is where she makes her-" He paused as though searching for the right word.

"Art," I supplied.

The studio had once been an enclosed porch off the kitchen, but a remodel job had fixed that. Now it had a clay tile floor, and lots of counter s.p.a.ce and cabinets to hold her craft supplies. I did a quick sweep of the room and saw traces of straw in a corner where Taz, her pet llama, had slept before she'd had the shed out back converted to a heated barn. I didn't see any brooches. Maybe she'd decided not to make more after all.

I opened the door to the kitchen and called, "We're here, Mom. Dad."

Marco followed me into the long, rectangular kitchen. Decorated in the 1980s, it had white appliances, oak cabinets, forest green laminated counters, and mauve, blue, and green floral wallpaper. A rectangular oak table with white legs and five ladderback chairs were arranged in front of a window that looked out on the backyard. There was no chair at the head of the table. That was Dad's place.

My dad wheeled himself into the kitchen to greet us. I gave him a kiss and Marco shook his hand. "Got a minute to sit down?" Dad asked us, indicating the chairs.

"Sorry," I said, "lots to do, Dad. Does Mom have the soup ready?"

"It's in the fridge," Dad said, then lowered his voice. "And just to warn you, we saw Raand's press conference on TV. Your mom"-he heard her coming and said in a normal voice-"was very upset by his statements."

"I'm furious about them," Mom said, sweeping into the kitchen with her coat over her arm. "How dare that sorry excuse for a man accuse you of having a personal vendetta against him and then make noises like he was some kind of mobster out to get you. I hope he's convicted."

Having said her piece, she kissed Marco and me on our cheeks, whipped out the container of frozen soup, and put it in a paper sack with handles. I held out my hand to take it, but she plunked the bag on the floor. "Stick out your tongue."

"Mom, I'm not sick. The soup is for a friend."

"You'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you do as your mother says," Dad told me.

I stuck out my tongue. Mom inspected it, felt the temperature of my forehead, checked the color of my eyeb.a.l.l.s, probed the glands beneath my jaws, and p.r.o.nounced me healthy. She turned toward Marco with every intention of giving him an exam, too, but I grabbed her hand before she could lay it on his forehead. "Marco's not sick, either."

"Do you have any news on the kidnapping case?" Dad asked Marco.

"Nothing yet, sir, but I'm working on it."

"Gave up on the detectives, did you?" Dad asked.

"Unfortunately," Marco said, "they've had their hands tied."

"The DA is gung ho for Raand, isn't he?" Dad asked.

"He should be," Mom said. "Only an evil person would condone injecting bovine hormones into those poor cows and letting them suffer so. It breaks my heart to think about them spending their entire lives in that condition, and locked in tiny stalls, as well, with no room to move. On our farm, our cows were well treated and happy, and they produced plenty of milk. We didn't even have to pasteurize it, which destroys most of its nutrients, you know. It was as fresh as G.o.d intended." She glanced at my dad. "Should I tell them my news now, Jeff?"

"Why not?" he said.

She smiled. "You are looking at the new head of the local chapter of PAR."

I gaped at her, picturing her carrying a sign and calling orders from a bullhorn as she led protesters around Uniworld's warehouse, while inside, Raand plotted her demise.

"Don't look so shocked, Abigail. I told you I wanted to help. When I contacted the president of the state organization and volunteered my services, a nice woman there said you had just notified her that you were unable to do any organizing, so she was thrilled that I called."

"Mom, I'm sure she appreciated your offer, but you heard Raand threaten me. If you organize any protests, he'll turn on you. Right, Marco?"

"Abby has a point, Mrs. Knight."

"I'm not going to lead a protest march," Mom said. "I have a better way of making sure those cows aren't mistreated." She glanced at the kitchen clock. "Now, I've got to get going."

"Aren't you going to tell us?" I asked.

Her eyes sparkled impishly. "Not yet. When the time is right."

I glanced at my dad. "She doesn't know how to build bombs, does she?"

"No," Dad said, "but her red pepper hearts can certainly ignite a few fires." He wheeled his chair toward the doorway to the living room, calling, "Marco, you've got to see this."

Mom sighed as she slipped on her coat. "He gets such a kick out of those candy hearts. Did I tell you he put them on the coffee table in a gla.s.s jar so he can tease me about them?"

"You could just toss them out."

"I'll let your father have his fun. Just wait, though, until my brooches become a must-have accessory. We'll see who has the last laugh then."

"So you're definitely making more?"

"Of course. If they're valuable enough to swipe, they must be a hot item. You don't mind if I hang on to your brooch a bit longer, do you?"

At that moment, Marco came to the doorway with his cell phone pressed to his ear. "It'll be fine, Rafe. Let me call you back after I get Abby over to Bloomers."

He shut his phone and slid it in his back pocket. At my quizzical glance, he said quietly, "I'll tell you later."

That didn't sound good.

"Is everything all right?" Mom asked.

Marco gazed at me as he answered. "Everything is fine."

He was lying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I said, "What's up with Rafe?" "Mama is coming in tomorrow and he's worried."